Subscribe to this blog

Follow by Email

The Poetry of Alfred Lord Tennyson and Pre-Raphaelite Art

Why haven't I done this before? Here I have chosen some of my favorite Alfred Lord Tennyson poems along with some beautiful Pre-Raphaelite paintings and illustrations. I even threw in Julia Margaret Cameron!

A sketch of The Merman by John William Waterhouse

The Merman

I

WHO would be

A merman bold,

Sitting alone

Singing alone

Under the sea,

With a crown of gold,

On a throne?

II

I would be a merman bold,

I would sit and sing the whole of the day;

I would fill the sea-halls with a voice of power;

But at night I would roam abroad and play

With the mermaids in and out of the rocks,

Dressing their hair with the white sea-flower;

And holding them back by their flowing locks

I would kiss them often under the sea,

And kiss them again till they kiss'd me

Laughingly, laughingly;

And then we would wander away, away,

To the pale-green sea-groves straight and high,

Chasing each other merrily.

III

There would be neither moon nor star;

But the wave would make music above us afar --

Low thunder and light in the magic night --

Neither moon nor star.

We would call aloud in the dreamy dells,

Call to each other and whoop and cry

All night, merrily, merrily.

They would pelt me with starry spangles and shells,

Laughing and clapping their hands between,

All night, merrily, merrily,

But I would throw to them back in mine

Turkis and agate and almondine;

Then leaping out upon them unseen

I would kiss them often under the sea,

And kiss them again till they kiss'd me

Laughingly, laughingly.

O, what a happy life where mine

Under the hollow-hung ocean green!

Soft are the moss-beds under the sea;

We would live merrily, merrily.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Sketch Mermaid by JW Waterhouse, 1892

The Mermaid by JW Waterhouse, 1900

The Mermaid

I

WHO would be

A mermaid fair,

Singing alone,

Combing her hair

Under the sea,

In a golden curl

With a comb of pearl,

On a throne?

II

I would be a mermaid fair;

I would sing to myself the whole of the day;

With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair;

And still as I comb'd I would sing and say,

'Who is it loves me? who loves not me?'

I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fall

Low adown, low
adown,

From under my starry sea-bud crown

Low adown and
around,

And I should look like a fountain of gold

Springing alone

With a shrill inner sound

Over the throne

In the midst of the hall;

Till that great sea-snake under the sea

From his coiled sleeps in the central deeps

Would slowly trail himself sevenfold

Round the hall where I sate, and look in at the gate

With his large calm eyes for the love of me.

And all the mermen under the sea

Would feel their immortality

Die in their hearts for the love of me.

III

But at night I would wander away, away,

I would fling on each side my low-flowing
locks,

And lightly vault from the throne and play

With the mermen in and out of the rocks;

We would run to and fro, and hide and seek,

On the broad sea-wolds in the crimson
shells,

Whose silvery spikes are nighest the sea.

But if any came near I would call and shriek,

And adown the steep like a wave I would leap

From the diamond-ledges that jut from the
dells;

For I would not be kiss'd by all who would list

Of the bold merry mermen under the sea.

They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter me,

In the purple twilights under the sea;

But the king of them all would carry me,

Woo me, and win me, and marry me,

In the branching jaspers under the sea.

Then all the dry-pied things that be

In the hueless mosses under the sea

Would curl round my silver feet silently,

All looking up for the love of me.

And if I should carol aloud, from aloft

All things that are forked, and horned, and soft

Would lean out from the hollow sphere of the sea,

All looking down for the love of me.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Illustration of The Mermaid from The poetical works of Alfred Tennyson

Sea Fairies by Emma Florence Harrison

The Sea Maidens by Evelyn De Morgan

Mariana by Julia Margaret CameronMariana

WITH blackest moss the flower-plots

Were thickly crusted, one and all:

The rusted nails fell from the knots

That held the pear to the gable-wall.

The broken sheds look'd sad and strange:

Unlifted was the clinking latch;

Weeded and worn the ancient thatch

Upon the lonely moated grange.

She only said, 'My life is dreary,

He cometh not,' she said;

She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead!'

Her tears fell with the dews at even;

Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;

She could not look on the sweet heaven,

Either at morn or eventide.

After the flitting of the bats,

When thickest dark did trance the sky,

She drew her casement-curtain by,

And glanced athwart the glooming flats.

She only said, 'The night is dreary,

He cometh not,' she said;

She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead!'

Upon the middle of the night,

Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:

The cock sung out an hour ere light:

From the dark fen the oxen's low

Came to her: without hope of change,

In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,

Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn

About the lonely moated grange.

She only said, 'The day is dreary,

He cometh not,' she said;

She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead!'

About a stone-cast from the wall

A sluice with blacken'd waters slept,

And o'er it many, round and small,

The cluster'd marish-mosses crept.

Hard by a poplar shook alway,

All silver-green with gnarlèd bark:

For leagues no other tree did mark

The level waste, the rounding gray.

She only said, 'My life is dreary,

He cometh not,' she said;

She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead!'

And ever when the moon was low,

And the shrill winds were up and away,

In the white curtain, to and fro,

She saw the gusty shadow sway.

But when the moon was very low,

And wild winds bound within their cell,

The shadow of the poplar fell

Upon her bed, across her brow.

She only said, 'The night is dreary,

He cometh not,' she said;

She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead!'

All day within the dreamy house,

The doors upon their hinges creak'd;

The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse

Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd,

Or from the crevice peer'd about.

Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors,

Old footsteps trod the upper floors,

Old voices call'd her from without.

She only said, 'My life is dreary,

He cometh not,' she said;

She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,'

I would that I were dead!'

The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,

The slow clock ticking, and the sound

Which to the wooing wind aloof

The poplar made, did all confound

Her sense; but most she loathed the hour

When the thick-moted sunbeam lay

Athwart the chambers, and the day

Was sloping toward his western bower.

Then, said she, 'I am very dreary,

He will not come,' she said;

She wept, 'I am aweary, aweary,

O God, that I were dead!'

Mariana illustrated by J.E. Millais from The Poetical Works of Alfred Tennyson, 1882 Edition

Mariana painted by J.E. Millais, 1851

Of course, this collection would not be complete without The Lady of Shalott, one of many Tennyson masterpieces.

J.W. Waterhouse painted three versions of her while Holman-Hunt joined in along with William Breakspeare and Sidney Harold Meteyard...

J.W Waterhouse painted the most recognizable depiction of The Lady of Shalott in 1888

Part I

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And through the field the road runs by
To many-towered Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow veiled
Slide the heavy barges trailed
By slow horses; and unhailed
The shallop flitteth silken-sailed
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?

Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
Down to towered Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott."

Part II

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot:

There the river eddy whirls,
And there the curly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-haired page in crimson clad,
Goes by to towered Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed;
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.

Part III

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling through the leaves,

And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneeled
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glittered free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazoned baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung,
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewelled shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burned like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often through the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;

On burnished hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flowed
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lira," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She looked down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror cracked from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.

Part IV

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
Over towered Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote

The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance —
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right —
The leaves upon her falling light —
Through the noises of the night
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turned to towered Camelot.
For ere she reached upon the tide

The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."

The Lady of Shalott by William A. Breakspeare (1872-1903)

Sidney Harold Meteyard - I Am Half-Sick of Shadows," Said the Lady of Shalott 1913

Popular posts from this blog

Princess Elizabeth Tudor miniature by Nicholas Hilliard
On 18 March 1554 Princess Elizabeth was imprisoned in The Bell Tower at The Tower of London by order of her half sister and ruling Queen of England, Mary I (Tudor) or (Bloody Mary) and as a result of The Wyatt Rebellion. Mary was determined to turn back the clock on twenty years of religious reform and make England a Catholic nation again. Elizabeth conformed outwardly to the Catholic faith. But she could not distance herself too much from her Protestant supporters. When Sir Thomas Wyatt led a rebellion in January 1554, matters came to an unpleasant impasse. Wyatt had written to Elizabeth that he intended to overthrow Mary but his letter was intercepted, as was a letter from de Noailles to the king of France. His letter implied that Elizabeth knew of the revolt in advance, and repeated rumors that she was off gathering armed supporters. The government was able to suppress the rebellion before it spread very far and Wyatt was arre…

I thought I would bring this exhibit to you, my dear readers and friends. So, here are the contents of the exhibit containing two of Beatrix Potter's letters written to children she knew 1892-1905. Also included some of her watercolors, illustrations, photographs, etc. On display for the first time are twenty-two letters from the Morgan, the Victoria
& Albert Museum in London, and the Cotsen Children's Library at
Princeton University. Also you will find the Potter family photo albums sadly under glass. I would have loved to been able to hold them in my hands and just look over every black and white photograph. There was a board game as well. I had no idea one existed!

As a life long reader and admirer of Beatrix Potter visiting this exhibit felt like visiting old family …

I am a writer and researcher of Victorian studies. I research the personal life of Alfred Lord Tennyson, his wife and sons. Also, I am interested in the life of pioneering photographer Julia Margaret Cameron and her sitters.
My article on May Prinsep was published as part of the Julia Margaret Cameron Bicentenary Conference, University of Portsmouth, UK. I have given talks on Alfred Lord Tennyson in the US and UK. My articles on Alfred Lord Tennyson have been published on various blog sites as well.
I’ve written guest post articles on author websites from notable nineteenth century authors ranging from: The Bronte Sisters to Jane Austen and those fascinating Pre-Raphaelite artists and muses.